


Alternate Meanings

by LithiumDoll



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Gen, JDay Fic, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumDoll/pseuds/LithiumDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For two-thousand: a collective condition or an act of compassion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate Meanings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepouncer](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thepouncer).



> Prompt: The IBM Jeopardy Challenge and the capabilities displayed by Watson the computer -- how would the Connors react?  
> Beta: Thank you very much, Deathisyourart, Doccy, Mitchy and SabaceanBabe!  
> Note: This is set post-Born to Run, but assumes John made it home.

The diner is small and noisy, with greasy windows and a static-filled TV humming high in the corner. John doesn’t catch its name, too intent on monitoring the cell phone in his hand and keeping just enough peripheral awareness to follow the back of his mother’s leather jacket as she weaves her way towards the counter.

Sarah pauses there just long enough to order two coffees and a glass of tap water, then heads purposefully towards the restroom.

Without really thinking about it, John chooses a table with a reasonable view of the doors, windows and street, close to the kitchen and the back exit they already checked for. The table surface is sticky with a faded veneer: washed often, with dirty water. He doesn’t notice.

Cameron sits almost completely still in the seat next to him, keeping watch. He gives his cell a final, satisfied tap and slips it back into his jacket pocket. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and then grins a little. “Blink.”

Her head turns and her chin lifts half a degree. “I average twelve to fifteen blinks in every sixty-second period. It seems optimum.”

Okay then. “Good to know. There’s nothing on the wire, yet.”

He settles himself back, gets comfortable; they’ll be waiting a while. It was only a flesh wound: a lucky shot at the last moment, and then listening to his mom alternately swearing and hissing through her teeth at every bump on the back road until they hit town.

 _Only_ a flesh would. His mouth twists. He should be way, way past wondering how the word “only” can be applied. He isn’t. Not quite.  So they call it a scratch and they shrug it off, because that’s what they do, and now his mom’s in the bathroom stitching the skin of her arm closed and he’s getting _comfortable_.

A waitress brings the coffee and iced water with a friendly smile that even reaches her eyes; John guesses she’s new or she’s had practice. He smiles back, ducks his head and murmurs his thanks and, when she’s gone, brings his mug up to his mouth.

“They may not have discovered the body yet,” Cameron says conversationally, just as he starts to swallow.

He keeps swallowing, ruthlessly clamping down on the urge to cough and pretty sure she did that on purpose.

If she’s exploring the concept of physical humour – or maybe just sadism – he really doesn’t want to know. “Not here. Later.”

She nods and falls silent again.

When Sarah comes back from the restroom, her expression is so carefully blank that John automatically begins to steel himself against whatever’s coming next. Possibilities rush forward; too many to process. He puts his mug down carefully before he breaks it. “What?”

Her mouth opens and then shuts again; a pensive frown draws her eyebrows together. He relaxes. Sarah Connor delivers bad news like ripping off a Band-Aid, instead this is … kind of like when he was six and he’d proudly shown her his two-headed dinosaur, drawn in purple crayon: something she can’t quite process.

It doesn’t happen often; it’s no surprise he hasn’t recognized it.

He smiles tentatively. “SWAT surrounding the building?”

She shakes her head. “They have a TV behind the counter. Jeopardy’s on.”

He widens his eyes and his smile. “Alex Trebek fans surrounding the building?”

Her mouth twitches before uncertainty retakes lost ground. “Just come and watch.” She jerks her head back, looking at Cameron. “Bring the tin miss.”

 

 

Standing at the counter behind a large man in a blue baseball cap and torn black t-shirt, they watch in silence until Cameron says, “Who is Jean Valjean?” A heartbeat later, a synthetized voice on the television asks the same question.

The man in front of them snorts and looks over his shoulder. “Well, sure, it’s easy for you, kid. That’s a machine they got there, Winston, Watson, something. Hell of a thing, huh?”

Cameron stares at him, blinks and then looks back to the television in time to say, “What is a missing leg?” Watson simply says, “leg,” and is disallowed.

The diner turns his attention to Sarah. “Guess they got a ways to go, huh?”

She ignores him. John raises a smile and hopes the sickly edges won’t be visible in the dull, greasy light. “They’ll get there.” He turns away and raises his voice a little. “Mom, we got that thing.”

No response; all her attention is fixed on the screen as Cameron, and then Watson, answer question after question. Watson misses some; Cameron doesn’t.

“You want to get the kid on there,” the man says enthusiastically, cold reception forgotten. “Get her on the show and make a few mil.”

He subsides when Cameron looks at him again, and he swallows. “Or not.”

“Yeah, or not.” John taps on Sarah’s arm and this time she focuses. “We got to go, mom. That thing.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. Her expression hardens. “We’ve got that thing.”

He narrows his eyes as he catches her meaning and shakes his head. “No.”

“No? You-“ Her mouth thins and she darts a look around, frustrated. “Not here.”

 

 

They both manage to stay silent, barely, until the truck door slams shut. Sarah opens her mouth; John speaks quicker.

“We don’t even know that thing has anything to do with Skynet,” he opens and then rushes on. “Watson’s purpose is to process natural language and respond appropriately. It’s learning context,” he adds, as if that will help.

Her eyes widen a fraction before they narrow again. “You knew about it,” she says flatly.

“Yeah, I knew about it.” He nods and looks away, hunches his shoulders and waits for the storm.

Instead, she speaks sharply, but quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her anger he can deal with, this – whatever this is – makes him wary. He scrubs a hand over his face and feels the rasp of stubble. She starts to speak again and he doesn’t mean to, but he yells, “ _Because we need them to think_.”

He slams his palm against the side of the door and Sarah jerks back as if he’s slapped her across the face. He guesses maybe he has.

“I have to be able to talk to them,” he says quietly, and rubs at his hand. “When – if - we lose. Lie. Beg. Bargain. Negotiate. The Turk is strategy and intelligence, but this is where it starts to understand and it _has_ to understand.”

She turns away; he can see her shadow in the glass of the window, drawn in faded lines. She doesn’t look happy, but she doesn’t look angry either. She looks tired.

“You still should have told me,” she says at last, not looking back. “You should have told me.”

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, because Connors are never sorry. Not when they’re right. He looks into the rear view mirror. “Cameron?”

Her eyes meet his incuriously.

“Alternate Meanings for two-thousand:  a collective condition or an act of compassion.”

There’s no pause. “What is humanity?”

He smiles tightly; isn’t that the question of the day. “Gold star.”

“A gold star isn’t two-thousand,” Cameron points out.

“I lied,” he agrees easily. The anger’s gone and nothing has come to take its place yet; it’s kind of nice.

She stares at him in bemusement – or at least processes with an expression of bemusement – and then looks away. “Okay.”

Sarah’s shoulders lower as tension eases away, like she’s finally putting something down. Letting something go.

“Don’t tell Jesse,” he says, when he’s relatively sure she’s past the point of yelling. He means to be more decisive, but it comes out part question and part plea. So maybe he’s not there yet, but he’s close.

Sarah smirks faintly. “I won’t have to; you will.”

Unable to think of a single reason why he would do that, he raises a wary eyebrow and just asks. “Why?”

“Because if you think she isn’t on her way to Yorktown Heights with a bag full of explosives right now, you haven’t been paying attention.”

John sits straighter and digs urgently into his pocket for his cell. He quick dials, it goes straight to voicemail. He hesitates, then says, “Don’t go after Watson. Call me when you get this.”

He snaps the cell cover down and frowns.  “We’ve got to make sure she doesn’t do anything. It can’t be a target.”

“We’re saving the machines now, Connor?” Sarah’s tone is choked back to nothing, inflectionless. “Those are your orders?”

And this expression he can’t read; he’s never seen it before.

“No,” he says carefully and hears his own voice, thin and airless with the shock of the last tie breaking. “This is how we save ourselves.”

When she just nods, he grits his teeth and turns the key in the ignition. He tells himself that he _is_ right, he _isn’t_ sorry.

As they pull into traffic he glances up at the rear view mirror; Cameron doesn’t blink. 


End file.
